Destruction
by Planet Enchilada
Summary: To die human is to die nobly. The last part in the "Indestructible" series.


**Here ends the saga of Cato and Clove. Dedicated to Kendall, because without her, this would never exist, and to those who followed my own little journey through District Two. I've finally finished my miniseries (I do apologize for taking so long). Your reviews have been District Eleven bread and pots of soup for me, don't stop. Thank you so much.**

**I will warn you. This is weird. I mean, this is seriously weird stuff. This is called Destruction for a reason. If things that don't make sense disturb you, if people's minds being messed with and ultimately deconstructed before your eyes causes you discomfort, you have been warned. Here ends the saga of Cato and Clove. It will end as honestly as it can, as unceremoniously and gruesomely as it did in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.**

**There is nothing more to say. We now bid farewell to our heroes.**

* * *

_Destruction_

She didn't close her eyes. Clove didn't close her eyes. It's a little disconcerting, feeling the life go out of her and watching her eyes go all glassy. I've watched it happen before in other people but it never gave me this strange feeling under my stomach before. But I have places to go and people to kill so I sort of shrug and decide that that's it. All done. Show's over. It was a good show, I think. She certainly gave them a good show.

But I won't have anyone representing District Two going back to the Capitol with her eyes open and staring like that so I sort of close them for her. And just like that it's like she's really and truly gone. No more green eyes glaring at you as if they were daggers themselves. Because everything else is dead. And now she's all dead. There's a cannon shot, the sound I didn't want to hear and I realize that sitting here on the damp grass, because it's hardly five minutes into the morning, I'm alone. For the first time in my entire life, I'm alone. I scowl at Clove because at the moment I definitely blame her. She left, didn't she? Left me alone, alone for the first time. Nobody to think about trusting someday. That sort of thing.

No, Cato, pull yourself together. You're not alone. You've got Nero and District Two howling their little hearts out at your stupidity. My extreme stupidity. I think I just showed some extraneous emotion. I think I just galloped across a field hollering the name of a person I think I cared about. I think I just held her as she died. I'm an idiot. She always said I was. She was right. I yank my hands back from contact with her dead body. Her hand isn't even cold yet but my skin feels like it's burning where it touched me with an icy fire that suddenly seems all over. My ears feel hot, like my hair's on fire but it isn't. My eyes are down, staring at my knees instead of at Clove, and I don't have anything to do with it. What is this? Is this… _embarrassment_? Am I _embarrassed_? Me? Of caring about Clove? I want to scoff at my own thoughts.

But the thoughts tell me that I've hit the nail on the head. I'm embarrassed. I wrinkle up my nose and glare at Clove's body, because that's all she is now, a body. The hovercraft will be here any moment now. I huff impatiently and flick her jacket open, relieving her of her knives. She won't be needing them and I'll need all the help I can get because right now, somewhere in the back of my head, there's a Cato banging around in there, pounding on my skull and shouting for me to go bring that Eleven to a bloody end. Her heavy shirt has thirty-seven little holes in it, one for each knife. I figure he threw her down and that's when it happened. I know he did it. This kind of blunt, painful killing isn't Twelve's style. She'd just put an arrow through your throat or something, not break half the bones in your body and then clove—_clobber_ you with a rock. And that's why the little Cato in my ringing skull is trying to get me after him. Immediately. Some revenge thing. He has the thing I apparently need most desperately. But I need to think. I need to think.

I don't have time to think. As soon as I've found a place for the knives in various pockets and sheaths, the air roars alive with the resounding sound of the hovercraft and I have to leave. I have to leave her behind. And I don't look back.

I run. I don't even know where I'm running. I'm not going after Eleven, I know that. I'm just running. Just flying over fallen trees in heavy clunking boots and pretending I'm on a mission for the cameras. Like I'm hunting someone. But I'm trying to think, just trying to think.

She's dead, okay, got that. I can accept that. I'm in this alone now, nobody watching my back and nobody scouting out ahead. Sure. Eleven killed her and something in me is still boiling and bubbling like a volcano and trying to turn me in his direction immediately and pummel in _his_ head with rocks. But I know I can't do that. I've already made the mistake of showing, what was it, compassion? Is that the right word? Something like that. At any rate, I've already dragged myself down to nearly Lover Boy's slimy level, though it isn't like that at all. I can imagine the reactions to the live broadcast—the rock I found nearby matching the horrible dent in her head, the collective gasp that would have gone up when Two realized they weren't going to get the honor of two reigning champions. But they wouldn't _care_, they wouldn't _care_ about _her_. They don't care about dead green eyes and a pale face and fingers that would never again paint little pictures with blood. They don't care about any of that. But I did and I _had_ to go and give them a good show about it. I had to stop what I was doing when I heard her shriek my name and I just had to go pounding across the field to find out what the trouble was. Surprise. That's what they'd feel then, surprise. _What's he doing? Why's he doing that? What's going on?_ And then when I just dropped down there and grabbed her hand like I could hold onto her and keep her alive like that or something, then it was shock. _What's going on? This is new. This is exciting, we don't care about the others._ When I told her to stay with me, because I think it was more of a command than a request, then I think they got confused. _Is this a joke? This is a really unoriginal strategy._ And then when I told her I was going to win for both of us, then they all laughed. I meant District Two, I want to tell them. I intend to win for District Two, not me and Clove collectively. I mostly mean it, too.

I wonder what time it is. I wonder how long I've been aimlessly wandering these woods, pausing at trees and imaginary footprints. The sun seems to be swooping low in the sky, actually. Have I really been at this all day? I can't have been. But I look around and realize that I'm in an entirely unfamiliar part of the forest. There's not a landmark in sight I recognize. So I'm out here alone with a backpack and a sleeping bag and a variety of weapons. Great. Time to try thinking again. Eleven went lumbering back into his little corn maze. Clove at least severely wounded Twelve (good for her) and she'll be too busy trying to fix up her precious Lover Boy to come looking for me. I'm not sure what to think about Five. Up until now she's been an afterthought, someone you kill in a brief encounter. Her little stunt at the Cornucopia has given me a slightly different view on her strategy, though. I wouldn't put it past her to slit my throat if she happened upon me sleeping. I need somewhere to hide.

I stop thinking. I just shut it all down. No more thinking for now, only doing. I begin wandering without direction around the area, looking for a place to spend the night. The only promisingly hidden place I happen upon is a very small cluster of trees surrounding a hollow I think I'd just fit in. The sun has begun to set so I flop open my sleeping bag and nestle it in the dead leaves. I'm about to lay down when I decide I really am very vulnerable here. I reach into my backpack—the one from our old camp—and pull out a rolled-up stiff sheet of transparent plastic, six feet square. That's not quite my height but I don't think Five would exactly cut off my feet. That almost seems like a more Clove thing to—

I lean the plastic sheet against the sloping sides of my little hollow and pull the sleeping bag up to my chin again. Considering how dark it is, the announcements should start any minute. I look up at the sky through my makeshift roof. The star-images shine through the thin leafy covering. I'm well protected by tree trunks and undergrowth from all sides but I'd be a goner if it was an aerial attack like the tracker jacker incident. I'm right, of course, and the anthem blasts down, shaking the leaves on the trees. And then her picture is huge and pixilated and all across the arena. Green eyes stare accusingly directly at me. They can all see where she's looking. They'll all start coming for me. In the darkness I reach out a hand to touch something, anything, to remind myself that I'm alive and that I'm anchored to this life and reality for now. I ought to wish I could touch Clove and know the same is true for her but I don't. I just don't. And then she's gone. So Clove is really and truly gone. Gone for good. They've taken her body away and they'll probably give it to her father. He'll probably dispose of his failed attempt at fame and fortune in the same ungraceful way he disposed of her mother. And nearly every strong, recent memory I have of her is tied to this arena, this awful, bloody arena. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about any of it. So I pull the sleeping bag over my head in case I talk in my sleep or something and I close my eyes and I think of absolutely nothing at all.

I sleep surprisingly soundly, considering all the circumstances. I don't have a single nightmare, which is certainly a break to the norm since we got here. I wake up uncomfortable, though. My feet and the bottom of my sleeping bag are soaking wet and the rain is drip-dropping along my plastic sheet. My eyes open to see raindrops stop just inches in front of my nose. The air is heavy but humidly cold, which is always a revolting combination. The sleeping bag is saturated and the water creeping up steadily so I punch my little plastic tent away and kick the sleeping back down as I stand. This is very obviously a mistake, which I discover immediately. The rain is very heavy, to say the least, and I'm thoroughly drenched within seconds.

"Ugh," is all I have to say, and while it isn't particularly eloquent it fairly sums the situation up. Everything's wet, the backpack, the sleeping bag, my spear, me. Stupid Gamemakers. They knew I was out and vulnerable last night, they sent the storm in on purpose. Stupid Cato. Of course they sent the storm in on purpose. I kick the sleeping bag with the toe of my boot which, I realize now, I've slept in. The bag rolls itself over a little in such a limp, wet manner that I realize it's taken on far too much water to practically transport. I could try wringing it out, I'm strong enough to make a dent in it, but it's Capitol fabric, made for temperature control, not shelter. It's done. I kick it back into the muddy hollow I spent the night in and zip up the waterlogged backpack, slinging it up over my shoulders. I can inspect this all at a later time, after I've secured the area and I know I'm safe from the insignificant dangers the other tributes pose. I roll the plastic up tightly and snap it shut with its velcro clasp and tuck it under my arm. All I have to do is pick up my spear and I'm out of here. But I can't. I stand in one place, staring at the long piece of metal and telling myself how easy it is to crouch down and put it in my hand but I _don't_. Why don't I?

"Pick it up, dummy," Clove's voice should say. "We've got people to kill. Can't do that sitting around here."

But it doesn't. Clove's voice isn't going to say anything now. Never again.

"Pick it up, dummy," I say to myself, and I'm really honestly shocked that I do. "We've got people to kill. Can't do that sitting around here." It takes some effort but I tear my eyes away from this strangely repellant spear to find that the rest of the world looks sharp and shiny, too. I've said _we_. Out loud. No. They'll just think I'm… talking to myself in the third person. Who am I kidding? I miss Clove.

No. I'm stronger than that. I'm _much_ stronger than that. The harsh contrast between light and shadow disappears and I force my hand over the spear and stand with it. I'm soaking wet but hardly feel a single drop despite the heavy rainfall. There's something wrong with me. Something very wrong. I think I'm losing my grip. On myself, I mean. Something's wrong. But I shake my head, as if that will do something, and I'm off, slogging through leaves that fall off the toes of my boots into the mud, ignoring the drenching I'm getting. I've devised a plan, I think. It's calculated, not built on impulse, and efficient. First I'll take down Eleven. He's my biggest threat right now. Then I'll see what I can do about Five, but she's not a priority. As far as I'm aware she hasn't actually killed anyone yet and hasn't directly gotten in my way yet. It's Twelve I'm on the fence about. Lover Boy, ha. Okay. Sure. He might have the medicine I presume their little bag held but I know where I got him and there's no way he'll be right as rain anytime soon. In fact, considering the hit should have been lethal, he may never get over it.

No.

That's wrong. This humidity is fogging up my brain. There's no way he'll _live_ long enough to know. It's a little disconcerting being the last Career here. I mean, Eleven and Five have been doing fine by themselves this long but now all the responsibility falls on me. Honor to the District and all that. So I do what I did yesterday. I stop thinking. The air is heavy and very wet and makes me more tired than it should, considering how well I seem to think I slept. In fact, I decide, after some time of trudging, it's almost concerning. How… sleepy I feel. Like my blood has become sluggish and my muscles loose and unresponsive. All of a sudden, my inventory decides I have a headache, and a bad one at that. It's like I didn't realize it was there until I labeled it. I really am losing it. I glance around quickly for no real reason, the logic being to look for cameras but reality reminding me it doesn't work that way. I can't let them know something's wrong. Just because I _cared_ for a minute, just because I didn't _want_ her to die when we could both win, they'll play it all up, they'll say there was another pair of star-crossed lovers in the arena and of course they'll be lying. I hate liars.

I slam the spearhead into the ground, abruptly enough, I hope, to remind them who and what I am. I am not their Lover Boy, I am a force to be reckoned with. I'm just a little dizzy and need to sit down. I blink hard because everything's gone a little fuzzy. I'm holding the spear too tightly, more tightly than I should be. Okay. Something's wrong. Keep your head, Cato, assess the situation, need to assess the situation. Headache. General ill feeling. Dizzy. Fast, irregular heartbeat. It could be any number of things. I rip the spear from the ground violently in frustration; I'm not in the top form I'd imagined I'd be in by this time. Okay, calm down, don't waste energy, there will be a battle today. Deep breaths, that's it. But that doesn't help. In fact, as I take my own advice, the headache becomes slightly more acute and everything is a little odd-looking, swimming in and out of focus.

I'm breathing it.

It's the Gamemakers. They've done something to the air. Must be one of those poisonous gases, the ones you can't see. It's unnecessary, I'm moving, I'm going to go kill. But the gas is so heavy on the wet, rainy air I figure I must have been exposed to it for quite a while. I _think_ I've been at it for about forty-five minutes, but I'm not sure because all sensors were down and the sky's too overcast to see the artificial sun. I try to think back to a day in training when this may have been covered, poisonous gases. The nearest thing I can get is _two hours_. A very desperate little remembrance. Two hours. Two hours to what? Until I die? Whatever it is, it's bad. Think, Cato, think. Okay. They still have five tributes left. There's_ no way_ they'd have us _all_ dropping like flies immediately. They'll keep the little Twelve pair going as long as they can, provided they're mushy-gushy enough wherever they are. And, unless my memory, which is behaving rather strangely, is deceiving me, I made the mistake of informing the world and a dying Clove that intended to kill Eleven. I mean, it's true, I'm going to kill him, but the fact that I dropped everything and ran for her makes Capitol people read between lines that aren't even there in the first place. They need us for the showdown. And it's dangerous where I am. So I need to get to where he is. Tall grass. Cornucopia. Okay. I know what I'm doing.

I can't stay here much longer, that's for sure. It can only have been an hour since I woke up, but then again, I don't really know when they started pumping the gas. I've got to move. But the ground looks so inviting, so soft and warm and mossy. I have the strangest desire to curl up right here and now and take a nap, out in the forest, entirely unprotected. Can't. I grab the spearhead, feel the sharp metal prick and cut. I try to focus on that, try to keep my mind occupied since shutting it down could be very dangerous at the present. But it's not working. Heavy waves. Drowning. So tired, so very tired.

And then thunder.

The loudest thunder I've ever heard. At first, I was quite sure the arena was collapsing, or that there had been an earthquake or something. Trees shook and the _ground_ shook. _That_ brought me to earth for a moment or two before I lapsed back into this dreary thickness I'm currently wandering through. It rumbles down the valley, though, and I decide it has to be thunder. (I really hope it's thunder.) At least, I think I decide it's thunder. Everything's a little foggy and verb tenses are getting muddled. I need to get out of here. I need to get to Eleven. Run. That's what I need to do run. How does one run again? Feet, move feet. I stumble rather blindly forward, jumping and waking up some every few minutes as another round of thunder comes flying down the hills. I can imagine what it looks like from the Capitol, me running and startling awake like a scared rabbit they're prodding on through the forest, leading it in to be killed. Except I won't be killed. I won't be killed.

I won't be killed.

And that's all I can think for a very long time. The farther I go, though, the clearer my head becomes, despite the sharp pain that shoots with it for every step. My stomach stops turning and by the time I reach the fringe of the woods across from the Cornucopia I'm nearly as good as new, if perhaps a bit short of breath. That's Capitol technology for you. Incredibly deadly but just as localized. Not that I mind that I seem to have outrun it. And ahead of me is the field, the Cornucopia, and beyond that, the waves of tall grasses my current adversary lurks in. I need a plan. I can't go hacking in, not without any idea what I'll do. He has every advantage over me, a regular food supply, I'm sure, knowledge of the terrain, and probably a number of hiding places. There's no way I can really assert myself as superior there. I wonder if there's any way to call him out. Well, maybe not call, exactly, he couldn't possibly hear me.

I decide the best thing to do at this time would be to try to get the best idea of the lay of the land as I possibly can and there's only one place for that. I can't climb these trees, I've already tried and they won't hold me. But the Cornucopia, I bet I could see pretty deep into his little hideout from the top of that thing. I'm not concerned about who might be hanging around, though. The Twelves will be somewhere together and Lover Boy can't go too far. Five can't possibly want to confront the most dangers tributes remaining, I can't imagine she'd be anywhere near here. And Eleven, he's in there waiting for me.

I'm wrong, of course.

I walk confidently enough, despite the downpour and the thunder to the Cornucopia. Of course. It's too wet. Can't climb metal in the rain. I drop the spear and sort of scrabble at the gold plating, trying to find purchase, but there are no positive results, only slightly bruised fingertips and a insignificant but large spray of water from slick grooves too small for me to catch. That's not going to work. I kick the thing and whirl around to pick up my spear and find some other course of action when I realize that it's not in the mud where I left it. It's been replaced with two very large boots. And attached to those boots is a very large person. Angry gold eyes watch my surprise as I realize Eleven's somehow managed to sneak up on me, move silently through the saturated ground. To make myself feel better, since I can't possibly look very good for the audience right now, I decide he's moved through the thunder.

We stare at each other for a short time, neither of us having a thing to say to the other. He has my spear but nothing else, there are no rocks available. I can almost hear the Capitol, "_Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight_!" And that's what I want to do. As we hold threatening eye contact, I feel my peripheral vision sliding out of focus and those golden eyes start to shine eerily and very immediately in front of me. The sharp contrast between light and shadow returns and everything seems wet and shiny like the Cornucopia. The spear, I've got to get the spear, I've got to get the spear I've got to kill him I've got to get the spear. So I give him the benefit of a warning and roar and dive. It's a stupid move. I could hit the spear so easily, die right now. I'm unbelievably lucky I don't. Instead, I knock him in the shoulders. I should throw him off his feet, having propelled myself almost completely at him but he only loses his balance and takes a step back, the spear twisting up. I slam an elbow into his chest and try to wrestle it from him but nothing seems to affect him at all. It's like he doesn't even feel it.

What follows is a rough-and-tumble, into the mud, slamming around the Cornucopia. He throws me against its side multiple times and I think for a second I feel ribs crack but there's no comeuppance so I decide I'm in good enough shape to try it on him a few times. He seems to bounce off, how is that possible?

"What are you doing?" I pant, trying to twist the spear from his tight grip. The rain makes our hands slick, advantageous and detrimental for both of us. "What're you doing, huh? You got some kind of—"

"Don't talk to me, pretty boy," he growls, landing a kick square in my stomach, knocking the wind out of me.

I cough and choke on the returning breath but I don't loosen my grasp on the spear I _will_ have. He needs to die. I will kill him. I will paint this arena with his blood, paint my name across this Cornucopia in it, stain it red, blind every other tribute with the red only I can see.

"Oh, I'll figure it out," I assure him, ignoring his command and slamming him against the metal again; he doesn't so much as buckle under the impact. "I'm the biggest, I'm the strongest, you're just a stupid Eleven. There's no way you can beat me, why not just give up now?" He doesn't answer and for some reason it makes me angry. Very angry. I feel the Cato inside my head, the one who bangs around demanding Eleven's death be long and painful, he's back again. I'm clawing at Eleven's throat now, trying to scratch my way in or something. I feel like every technique I ever learned, everything from training has been washed away in the rain, like it's instinct now, some wild animal fighting. But then I find something. Something at his neck. My fingers slide under his skin. But it's not his skin. It's some kind of suit, some sort of fabric. It's springy and elastic and very tightly woven, nothing could get through it. So that's his little secret. He's got body armor. They've sent him body armor. That must have been what was in his backpack!

But I'm distracted. As I move my hands from his throat to grab the spear he wraps his enormous fingers around _my_ neck and starts squeezing, like his wringing out a waterlogged towel. And that's not good. It sends me shooting ever deeper into that shiny, shiny world where everything around me has to die, where _trees_ need to be screaming in pain. He'll die here, he'll die here in agony, just like she did.

"You killed her," he tells me. I'm starting to gasp for breath but I manage to slam the spear into his ribs, warm blood mixing with the rain. If only it would rain his blood, drown everyone else out, the thunder dying heartbeats. "You and your friends, you killed an innocent girl," he gasps out, loosening his stranglehold on my throat.

What? What's he talking about? I didn't kill Clove, _he_ killed Clove. He's lying. I jerk the spear up like a lever inside him and he give one last groan, lets go of me, and drops to the muddy ground. The raging Cato in my head calms down to a rather insane seething, roiling quietly under the surface. I hear one last rattling breath from him but kick it out of him, driving my foot into his side so that he choke son it. The cannon shot comes, booming around various rumbles of thunder. Everything spins, everything feels sharp, and I feel like my mind is tripping over itself, rushing on ahead of me, thinking things before I get a chance to really register what it is I'm thinking about. I'm breathing hard, I'm soaking wet, I can't think straight. But Eleven is dead. Only the Twelves and Five left now. And they won't know I'm coming, they'll think I'm looking for Eleven. What I really need to look for is the backpack, my backpack, the one he stole. And that's in his little garden.

But the body armor, that's troubling. It obviously came from the backpack, I've been over that. So that was the thing he "desperately needed." So what did they have for me and Clove? What do we desperately need? I certainly hope it's more effective than this was. But it's in there, in there somewhere. So that's where I go. I step over the bloody corpse and head for his grass fortress.

But the body armor, that's troubling. It obviously came from the backpack, I've been over that. So that was the thing he "desperately needed." So what did they have for me and Clove? What do we desperately need? I certainly hope it's more effective than this was. But it's in there, in there somewhere. So that's where I go. I step over the bloody corpse and head for his grass fortress. The world spins around me, like I'm in the middle of a tornado, but I keep moving, despite the rolling of the ground.

Everything is so shiny, too shadowy. It's confusing and I'm thinking about as straight as I'm walking. But I'm hacking my way in with the spear, mowing down the vegetation as I go. It's not as thick as I thought it might be, infested with snakes and quicksand and who-knows-what-else. In fact, the grasses thin and eventually wind into paths. Through the haze of this strange half-crazed state I recognize footprints in the mud and I know I'm going in the right direction.

The footprints lead to a little clearing. The mud is actively being washed away down into the stalks surrounding it as the rain continues to pour. And there are the backpacks, two of them, black and labeled. And now they belong to me. I've pulled one arm out of our old backpack strap and swung the Two bag up when I feel a sharp blow from behind and go toppling into the muck. I immediately go to nightmarish visualizations of bears and coyotes and Capitol mutts and flip over, shrugging off both backpacks entirely and swinging the spear up. Its point comes in contact with something inflexible and as I look up the shaft I feel my boiling blood turn cold. It's Eleven, he's back, he's back from the dead and he sparkles like dewdrops and his eyes glow dangerously. How is this possible? He's dead. Dead means gone, you don't come back when you're dead. Clove is dead and I won't be and that's the way I like it.

"How many times do I have to kill you?" I roar at him, dragging myself out of the squelchy mud and brandishing the spear. "Once wasn't enough?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he growls, shifting to the left, for which I compensate. "You didn't so much as touch me with that spear. You ran off like a baby rabbit."

Somehow, the phrase _baby rabbit_ seems awfully out-of-place in the Hunger Games. But what's he talking about? I fought him, I killed him. I stabbed him in the—no. The body armor. If I look very closely I can see the seam between the collar of the suit and his natural skin. And in that second, that very second, I spring.

He isn't expecting it. He's got his feet planted and his stance widened but he isn't expecting me to come flying at him. But I do. We go toppling to the ground. He claws at my face, punching and kicking. And I work the spear up to his neck. He struggles, thrashing around in the mud, smearing rivers of it on my face, trying to kick out from under me, but then the spearhead touches his skin and he stops abruptly, as if he's been frozen or already killed.

"You all killed an innocent little girl, pretty boy," he rumbles, breathing hard and trying to see the spear I have beside his throat. I press it in so that a few drops of blood wash away immediately into the rain.

I shrug so indifferently I almost believe it myself. "So did you." And I jam the spear through his neck, digging it into the mud on the other side.

I don't want that spear anymore. I stand up, mud and water dripping from my clothes. I dislodge the toes of my boots from the muck. And I hold myself tall for District Two. I turn around and I walk blindly away and I see nothing but a metallic shine of the world, which seems to be tilting like a boat under my feet, even though I know I've gotten clear of the gas. A flash of lightning lights up the world in black and white in front of my eyes and a roar of thunder follows. The ground shakes slightly under my feet and I know Eleven is dead. And he doesn't so much as get the honor of an audible cannon shot.

* * *

I walk and I walk. I say nothing, see no one, do nothing. Clove's knives jostle against my chest and every so often I feel one prick me and I think that I should find a new place for them, but I can't think of anywhere else they could go. I walk all day. It's wet. I like dry. When it's night, I stop. I put up the plastic. I sleep. I don't see his face on the screen.

* * *

The next morning I'm thinking again and it's stopped raining. Everything glistens a pristine shade of green, washed pure and clean. I rub my head, trying to decide if I still have a headache or not. I'm thinking I don't. I punch the plastic away from the soggy hollow I slept in and pack it up. Time to move out and time to kill.

"Well, Clove," I start to say, looking to my right, where I could have sworn she was standing. And now she's not. I turn around the whole way, trying to decide where she's gone. She's dead. Clove's dead. Of course, I knew that. When you're dead you're gone and I can't let that happen to me. So I cough and clear my throat and pretend I hadn't said anything. I duck my head because I don't want to look at the Capitol right now and I walk on.

It's maybe ten in the morning that I stop to rest. I'm aiming for the river we saw Twelve in, she had to be near Lover Boy, isn't that right? Of course it is. I sit on a log still slick with slimy moss and catch my breath. I lean back my head to look at the leaves above me and try to figure out what's wrong with me. Clove is dead and I've killed Eleven. Last Career standing, last tribute with a chance. I'm fairly sure that only Twelve , Lover Boy, and Five remain but I neglected to watch the death toll last night. I'm not sure why. I take a deep breath of the cool wet air and am about to continue on my way when I see a glint of silver in the trees. I leap to my feet, hand going for a knife, but in a second it drifts into view. It's a parachute, the sort the sponsors send to those tributes too weak to care for themselves or those strong enough to deserve an advantage. It floats gently on a nonexistent breeze to stop on the ground in front of me. I kneel in front of it and lift it up, turning it over in my hands. Okay, Capitol, what have you got for me?

I open the silver parachute curiously. I'm not in any great hour of need, at least, not yet. What could they possibly want to send me, especially in so small a package? The wrapping slides off easily. It's a flat box, one of those medicine boxes with the slide-off sleeve. Orange with little compartments for each pill. But I'm not sick. I'm fine. I don't need medicine. Why have they sent this? And why now? I mean, it's great foresight and all but something isn't right. I'm in better physical condition than I've been in a very long time, I think, from the constant exercise coupled with a proper diet that probably won't keep up now that Clove's not around to see to it. I scowl at the box and slide it open because really, something isn't right. And so I flip the open box over to read what it is they've sent me because I have nothing better to do. _Anti-depressant medication_, it reads. I almost crush the entire thing in my fist. What's their problem? Are they really mocking me? _Me_, their last hope for a District Two win? Maybe they don't want me to come home. Maybe they figure I've cast enough shame on the district already and that they can't afford to keep me around. Let me die and try again next year. Sounds like them.

I don't thank anyone this time, not like Clove used to, grinning maliciously up at the sky with a new knife or something, letting it glint in the sun and thanking the sponsors for their kind gift. I mash the box in half and shove it in my pocket. I don't need this right now. And I won't need their gift ever.

This time I run. I don't even remember if I'm going the right way, or even if I'm going in a straight line. I just _run_. I don't stop. I can feel the knives pricking at me with every step and I can feel the medicine hit my hip from inside my pocket, too, but none of it stops me. I just go. I wheeze and tire and collapse before nightfall but I'm done for the day. I've covered so much ground I've had to have lapped the arena, or at least the forested part. Dodging trees becomes time consuming after a while but it's the same as training. Occupy your mind and it can't play tricks on you. Only trust yourself. I wait for hours, staring through my plastic roof as the light dims and the green becomes lighter and more like gray. Night comes and the anthem blasts the red-head from five across the sky. She's dead then, and it's down to me and the Twelves. And I know I can take them, even on my own. No problem.

I am Cato and I am going to win the Hunger Games.

The next morning everything's a lot more dry. I'm excruciatingly thirsty. I realize I haven't actually stopped for a drink in a day or so, I've had water so very readily available, pouring down my face perpetually. I make my rounds, circling out from camp like I've learned, looping back in on myself so that I'm always within sight of familiar territory. But there's nothing. Not a drop of water to be found. A few streams and springs have only cracked mouths gaping from the ground in memorial to the water they once held. And I know I'm in for another day of moving. Moving, however, while one is dehydrated is a lot less comfortable than when one _isn't_. By midday I'm panting and collapse against a tree, trying not to breathe so quickly, since the air is pulling the moisture away from my tongue. I try to think about how _good_ it's going to feel to have Twelve and Lover Boy dead, since I haven't been doing that as often. Haven't been thinking recently. I try to imagine their warm, wet blood flowing between my fingers, running down my throat and quenching this unimaginable thirst. I snuffle a little, like I'm upset about something. What is there to be upset about? And almost without knowing what I'm doing I reach into my pocket. Stop it, Cato, don't let them see. I open the package. You don't need it, you're doing fine. I take out a pill and hold it in my hand, white against mud. You _can_ work on your own, Cato, put it back they've seen they've seen you do it don't do it the cameras don't do it.

I throw back my head and the pill scratches its slow way down my throat. Swallowing is even more difficult. Nothing happens, not right away. I'm annoyed and I slam the package back into my pocket, embarrassed once again by something I've done. I've shown weakness. I can't be Cato anymore. Who am I? What? Where am I? When did Cato stop being?

My head starts to ring again, like it had before. I cough a bit, choking on where the pill used to be. But I can feel something familiar. A fizz through my bloodstream, something pushing its way into my brain. These are no anti-depressants. These are the pills we've been given since training, since I was a child. District Two has sneaked them in. This is what has erased everything that isn't Cato and made me what they want to be. I'm eight years old again, giving myself up to the world that shines like the reflection on a knife and propels me, because I know what I'm doing now. I remember who I am and what I'm doing here. I'm Cato. I'm Cato and I'm here to in the Hunger Games.

I do things. I put the body armor on because it's what I needed most desperately. I'm sure explanations will come, now all I have to do is what I know. I force my way through the forest, following stagnant instructions on survival I'd somehow blocked out. I need to head for the lake, not the stream. I go for hours, just going, never stopping. I'm Cato again. And I don't give Clove a second thought.

Until I see her again.

Everything grinds to a halt, abrupt and blood-chilling. I find myself standing on a fallen tree, watching and listening careful for all signs of pursuit when I happen to glance down. Peering out of a shadowy bush is a pair of green eyes, very like hers in their piercing cruelty. And I know it isn't Twelve and I know it isn't Lover Boy and I know it isn't Clove. So I lift a knife and hope for the best.

There's a low animal sound behind the eyes. I want to shout at the thing, demand it show itself, but I can't imagine that would look particularly impressive or be entirely effective. So I do nothing. I just stand there and the anticipation weighs the air down. I'm about to move, thinking I've imagined it or something because, really, my brain's hardly been in prime condition recently, when it attacks.

Just like I did for Eleven.

A burst of coarse brown fur, like a really uncomfortable coat, comes flying out at me, snarling and barking and all teeth and claws. It rakes the talons across my chest but the body armor holds its shape and I don't feel anything beyond a slight vibration through the impossibly miniscule coils of fibers in the suit. But I don't really take time to get a good look at the creature because from behind it leap countless others, these wolf-like things, long muzzles dripping with foamy saliva, eyes wild and teeth dagger-sharp. And I do something very un-Cato, something very un-District Two but something I find very justified at the moment. I run.

I throw a few knives and a couple sink into the wolf pack. A few yelp and are trampled by their companions but I'm no Clove and I haven't hit them all. So I crash headlong into the woods, just trying to stay ahead. Just try to stay ahead, Cato, just try to stay ahead. Try to stay ahead, Cato, just try to stay ahead.

And then as my movement kicks the drug back in and I feel my proper self returning, it starts to rain. It pours and it pours and my hair is plastered to my head and I'm soaked through the suit to my skin but I don't feel it. It feels like I'm charging through the hot, dry air of the arena, not a downpour. The creatures' howling and ravenous barks and quickening footsteps disappear into the deafening shattering sound of the rain through the branches. They want to kill me. The Capitol is trying to kill me. That's not the way it works. I'm me, I'm Cato, I'm supposed to win. I'm supposed to _win_. Me or Clove, one of us is supposed to win and it can't be Clove so it's me. They're not supposed to try to kill me, I'm special. I'm a person and I feel things, really, I do. You're not supposed to do that to people who watch people die. Clove died and she felt things and you're not supposed to _do_ that. You kill the other ones, you kill Twelve and Lover Boy, you kill them because they don't matter, they aren't people, they aren't you. You're the only one who counts, I'm the only one who counts, except Clove, only she doesn't count anymore. And then there's a sword in my hand, a sword I'd lost days ago, and the animals are gone and it's pouring rain and there's a tree. So I do the only logical thing there is to do.

"_I am a human being_!" I roar at the storm. Without fully realizing what I'm doing, I swing my sword through the air with all the force I can muster behind it. The blade slams halfway into a very thick tree trunk and I'm left with the vibrating handle refusing to budge in either direction. They're laughing at me. I can almost hear them laughing. They're laughing at me like I'm some animal doing an amusing trick. I want this sword in every _one_ of them. I want to cut out their hearts and—and I sit down. I sit down with my back against the tree and I try to figure out what I am. Am I a human being? Do human beings _want_ to cut the hearts out of other human beings? Do they _like_ the smell of blood and cries of pain? Do they not mourn the loss of innocent children? I realize that I really don't have a very good frame of reference.

I want to cut the hearts out of other human beings. I like the smell of blood and the sound of cries of pain. I don't mourn the loss of innocent children. I don't even mourn the loss of not-so-innocent Clove. The rain has flattened my hair on my forehead and it all comes pouring down my face and up my nose. I should get out of the downpour. I should find shelter. But I don't want to. Why should I? Shelter is a basic need of humans. I'm no human, they say. Why should I even try to win now? I don't have a life, I never had a life. The closest thing I had to a life was Clove and she's gone, she's never leaving the arena. So what _am_ I? How can I die if I'm not alive in the first place?

But then this is gone. It's all gone. The rain's gone and I'm back into panic mode, where I can't keep up with my mixed-up thoughts. Clove is gone and the rain is gone and the sword is gone and I'm still running. How is this possible? Where am I? How long have I been doing this? Pull yourself together, Cato, you have to win this. You're _supposed_ to win this. I'm gasping for breath by the time we reach the lake. I burst out in style because the mutts—for they can only be that—are nearly nipping at my heels. The Cornucopia, gotta climb the Cornucopia, gotta hide on top. Their human-like skeletal structure is no match for Capitol metal.

But there's Twelve and Lover Boy and they look about as shocked to see me as I don't care about them. An arrow glances off my chest, where the armor is quite intact, and I assume Twelve has fired it. Gotta go, can't stop, can't stop, they'll kill _me_, they'll kill me, can't stop, what am I doing, I'm as bad as the Capitol, they want to kill me, I've been killing them, I like killing, I truly like killing.

The Cornucopia's hot and I can practically hear my hands sizzle against it but I don't even pull them back. I have much more pressing priorities right now, like saving my life. They'll fix me up in the Capitol and I'll be handsome again and all of the Capitol girls will be glad I won instead of Lover Boy, you'll see. I haul myself to the rim of the thing and gasp there like a beached fish, trying to catch my breath, trying to wrap my head around what's going on. I faintly hear Twelve and Lover Boy clang against the hot gold metal, too, I hear them shouting to each other and a scream of pain from Lover Boy. I wonder briefly if the mutts have got him, but if they have, I'm next.

"Can they climb it?" I wheeze, and it's a while before I can focus myself well enough to process the answer. No, they can't climb it. And I think I fall asleep.

If I do fall asleep, I wake up almost immediately. I have somehow moved myself in this blood-red daze and time is moving strangely. I see seconds at a time and then it jumps forward, slamming to catch up with itself inside my head. I have Lover Boy in a headlock by the mouth of the Cornucopia. Am I going to kill him? Can I kill him? They want to kill me because I am a human being. Is he, too? Is Lover Boy on the same level I am? He paints on my hand, paints in blood, like Clove would do, like she would describe as a bedtime story, beautiful masterpieces that would run down in heavy drips like rain on a window, and she wouldn't mind, because what it did naturally only made it more beautiful. And then there's an arrow between the bones in my hand and I'm falling and the ground is rushing up to meet me, but not smoothly, like if things were going properly, short and sharp and then I hit the ground and it hurts my head but not as much as the blow my heart takes when I realize what I'm looking at. The mutts surround me like a wave, and I can't even comprehend it properly. One moment they're rushing forward, the next they move only centimeters at a time and I'm immobile.

I roar and leap to my feet again, trying to fight things I can't see properly. I slash with a sword (have I had it all along?) and it rings like a bell against the Cornucopia, tolling out the deaths of mutt after mutt. Down they fall, light and dark, all with collars, all with eyes, but none of them human, none of them deserving to live, none of them what I am, because I deserve to live and I'll fight for it. Until one hits me behind the knees. I back into it, to be fair. And then I'm sailing toward the ground again. And this time, no matter how hard I try (and I do try, oh, I try so hard) I can't get up. And my hands disappear into the mouths of these creatures and my shoes are ripped to ribbons of heavy leather by claws like blades and they all begin to look like people I once knew. The blonde one licks my hair as it gnaws at my skull. The big dark one goes for my neck. And one of them, the dark one with the green eyes, she slashes my jacket to shreds so the knives scatter across the hard ground.

Clove. Feast. Die. Desperately need. Body armor. Mutts. Desperately need. Clove. Desperately need. Clove.

* * *

**Things you may be interested in knowing: (or not)**

**It's been remarked that many of the stories are repetitive. This is correct. The repetition is occasionally intentional. If you've been particularly observant, you may have noticed that the sentence "I hate liars" has appeared in every story, whether it's from Clove or Cato's point of view.**

**The first word in the series is, (plus an apostrophe-s, but that doesn't count, does it) is Cato. The last is Clove.**

**Finally, a thank-you or two:**

**Kats96-Ah, the fluff deliberator. The backbone behind my second-guessing every sentence. Thank you for your extremely helpful part in keeping me in line. (:**

**Kendall or the REAL AccioVeritaserum-Without you I'd have quit and been like "WELLL we're done here." Thank you for poking me with a stick and making me figuratively cry over the body armor with you. They're just as much your stories as they are mine.**

**Gabrielle-Thank you for putting up with me. And my death scenes of morbidity. Even if you never wanted to read any of it, I'm glad you did.**

**NozomiMe-You've been incredibly supportive through every story with your reviews, and you don't need to worry, if I'm signing off with a Douglas Adams quote, you needn't take anything I've said to seriously. I don't think I'm ALL that bad. (;**

**The Tumblr people who've recommended/quoted any of these stories-You have no idea how thrilled this makes me. It's incredible to see my work being recommended to other readers. You have excellent taste. (;**

**And you, and whoever has taken the time to review or favorite or even just read-THANK YOU. You qualify as some of the most wonderful people in the world, howsabout that? Pat yourself on the back and accept my most sincere thanks and appreciation.**

**So long,**

**and thanks**

**for all the fish,**

**Your friendly neighborhood Planet Enchilada**


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